


Coldhearted

by Rhoverty



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Anyways, Bleeding Out, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Trafficking, Kinda, No I dont, One Shot, Whump, and this means i can get more creative, because obvi, cuz you cant tell me what to do, hes such a dad, i mean man, like human trafficking but its not..., no one can tell me other wise, slade is a very patience father, wing fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 02:48:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19454752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhoverty/pseuds/Rhoverty
Summary: If it wasn't for the nagging voices in his head, he would've left the kid to die.





	Coldhearted

**Author's Note:**

> Writing anything was like pulling teeth tbh. I've moved states and started school, but now we have a week off so I'm trying to dedicate it to writing. Because of that, this story might seem a little over the place. I tired to stay away from that, but I'm worried I didn't succeed as well as I was hoping.
> 
> Anyways, I really like wing fics so, I've decided to give one ago and I have T H O U G H T S on this okay! I might even start an actually story including said thoughts I've discussed within this story. 
> 
> As always, unbeta-ed, any and all mistakes are mine.

Unlike the city, where the snow is damp and grey, slushy and drowned by the tires of traffic and heavy feet – the snow of a pine forest was soft. A gentle sway of white which fell from grey clouds and descended through green needles. Tranquil as it was, it wasn’t a place to be left behind. Left to the mercy of mother nature and her power. The cold bite of winter seeped into the bones of her victims and her prey, leaving them quivering with chattering teeth and wavering consciousness. Left them freezing in the grasp of her beauty and the fangs of her bite.

For a mercenary, snowcapped mountains and cold chills were a nuisance. It hindered progress within a mission and its only good use was for concealment, if required, but soured a mood if nothing else.

His boots crunched in the fresh fall, leaving a trail from the ruins of the smoldering warehouse to the fallen figure which settled meters before his gaze. Even from his current distance, those massive wings contrasted greatly against the white of the snow which surrounded them. The rich browns and the subtle bits of red reflecting within the flicker of the flames engulfing the warehouse behind. The closer he got the more he noted the lack of movement which came from those wings and their owner.

He came to a stop a few feet away and something in his chest clenched. Pulled at his lungs and puttered against his heart.

He recognized these wings; thought they had gotten away.

Similar to his own, ones that represent a predator, broad and powerful. These wings housed incredible strength and speed. Blending in with the dark sky of the city he prowls and capable of blocking out the light from the moon which habitably peers through the inky black clouds. A terror of the night – much like his father.

Knitting his brows beneath the mask, he takes a step forward and bends down. Surveying the immediate area, he notices the splatters of red which splashes across the snow and pool beneath the boy’s wing. Cautiously, he takes hold of its tip, feathers crinkling in his grasp enough to entice a groan, especially as he lifts it from its spot.

He was expecting to find a completely limp figure, instead he’s met with a sharp teal orb and gun pointed at his face.

Ignoring the threat casually, he takes stock of the shattered helmet, pieces littering the ground, blending in with the growing stain hutched around his abdomen. He zones in on that and, what little the boys attempting to cover with an arm around his stomach, he’s able to see _something_ jutting out from beneath his hand.

_Must have happened during the explosion,_ he thinks.

The Red Hood was in the same building, Slade remembers quite vividly. The brat caused a ruckus, which in turn got himself caught.

Sighing, Slade allowed the kid to snatch his wing from his grasp, keeping the weapon pointed at his head.

“Relax, if I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead. You know that,” Slade says, not moving and not taking his gaze from the glinting barrel.

Todd’s gaze narrowed more than it already was, darting between him and the surrounding area. Slowly, he lowered the weapon, shuffling a bit away – probably grinding his teeth against the pain it obviously caused, considering his tensing figure. Then he collapsed onto his back, wings splayed out and slightly ruffled – one of them looking more so than the other. He gazed at that one in particular and found more splotches of crimson staining those chocolate sharp feathers. He remembered that injury vividly too.

The kid was breathing harshly, breaths rattled and wheezed as a hand came up to fumble with his helmet. Slade watched for a moment, as those strangled breaths turned slightly panicked when it wouldn’t come off. Giving into another sigh, Slade reached over, swatting the kids hands away before grabbing the sides of the helmet and yanking it off, setting it to the side. Todd visibly relaxed, rapped breaths easing back into pained.

“Thanks,” He mumbled, eyes slipping close as he sunk further into the snow – a chill stuttering through his form.

“Don’t mention it, kid,” Slade replied, then reached over and gently pried the boy’s hand away from his stomach and assessed the injury.

It was just as he thought, an impalement, metal jutting out from just below his ribs along his left side. It looked painful, but luckily it wasn’t bleeding as profusely as if could if the piece were removed. Humming thoughtfully, he lifted the crimson soaked leather jacket and found the black armor beneath just as saturated.

“Luckily for you, kid, you’re not gunna die yet. Congratulations.”

Hood gave him a narrowed eyed look before lulling his head to the side – obviously not in the mood to snark.

“Lucky me,” he grumbled instead.

* * *

Seeing the remains of his intended target – Maria Rubio, thirty-six, mother, daughter, crime lord – bleeding out in her office, sent his mind buzzing. Like a stripped wire exposed to water, his thoughts were electrified in paranoia and curiosity. Taking a close gander to her corpse, Jason ruled the cause of death away from suicide. From what he understood; she was a powerful woman who backed down to no one. She held the nearby towns in her grasp, controlled the area with an iron fist and dabbled her hand in the country’s governmental corruption.

This was the farthest thing from suicide, she was targeted. Either by her own men in a tragedy of betrayal, or someone paid for her demise. Jason weighed his options while scanning the room – a mess of papers and toppled furniture – and once he returned to her figure, he ruled betrayal from the picture.

Someone paid for her death, and whomever was granted the honors, might still be around. He had the half thought to think it was Slade. The man would take just about any contract given to him if the money was worth his time. However, Maria was a low priority target to even a beginning mercenary. She wasn’t known widely, at best she was a ghost to her people, and nameless to an outsider. The only reason Jason was here in the first place, was a favor for an old acquaintance from his post-Lazarus days years back.

Narrowing his eyes from behind the lens of his helmet, he turned on his heel and left the office, the tips of his wings brushing across the door frame.

The warehouse itself was nothing special; rundown, abandoned, in need of some protection against the elements. Any common sense would tell these people that insulation is a great idea, _especially_ if you’ve decided to camp out in the frigged tundra of Russia. Nonetheless, these guys didn’t seem to be the types of individuals with such niceties. That, however, did _not_ make them any less dangerous or sadistic.

In his defense, he wasn’t expecting the catwalk to crumble beneath his weight and send a foot through the rusted flooring. Which in turn, brought all of the attention within the warehouse straight to his _supposedly_ hidden vantage point.

“Fuck me,” He grumbled, yanking his foot out of the hole and diving to the side, narrowly avoiding the whiz of bullets that hailed in his direction. Glancing around the area, he noticed the broken skylight etched into the ceiling above. Taking a strangled breath, he leaped.

Just when he brought his wings out, a sharp cry strangled his throat as something cinched around his feathers and set him plummeting toward the ground below.

In the mists of his escape, Slade paused when he heard the metallic clang from the catwalk to his right.

He raised a brow and turned toward it, crinkling them together as soon as he caught that bright red helmet. The grumble of thugs brought his attention toward the warehouse floor where he watched, with widening orbs, as one of them pulled out a rocket launcher like weapon and aim it up toward the kid.

He almost said something, but realized too late once the man fired the projectile. It wasn’t a rocket, which eased his mild panic slightly, however, it was a sling with lead weights on each end. It jutted out and twirled around the ends of the kid’s wings – crinkling those dark, primary feathers and digging into its muscles – sending him to the ground with a yelp.

Jason flailed his arms, trying to find purchase on anything that would break his fall or keep him from the reach of the thugs below. It was a vain attempt and he hit the ground with a vibrating _thud_ which racked through his body and tore the air from his lungs. Jason hadn’t gotten the chance to recover as a pair of hands were reaching down, latching onto the rear of his wings and yanking him up. He hissed, sparks of pain scuttering through his upper back.

His hands pawed at the ground, helplessly. He was still intensely dazed and trying to catch his breath from the fall. He squealed when they practically yanked the sling from his wings, pulling feathers off and sending a dull ache puttering through his form. An ache which was suddenly masked by the sharp _agonizing_ pain of something impaling through his right wing, pinning it and him to the ground beneath him.

A yelp was torn from his lips as he instinctively tried to pull away only to have it strain painfully against his wing. Hands reached down, grabbing holding his limbs, that alone put the pain on the back burner and sent a wave of adrenaline coursing through his veins with a ravenous type of vengeance. It felt like the pit, whisper nothingness against his ear, rumbling through his soul with the _need_ for pain and the blood of those around him to drench him in their rich metallic color.

He jutted a leg out, kicking the nearest occupant enough to feel a flicker of satisfaction when they squealed and hit the ground. As a meaty hand tighten around his wrist, enough to grind the material into his skin, he used his free hand to sink a spare knife into the man’s wrist. He growled, the grasp on Jason’s arm lessened enough for him to yank it. Before doing so, the same man used his free hand to grab the front of his helmet – obscuring his vision complete – and slammed his head against the cement floor, _hard_.

Jason went almost completely limp as the blow rattled his mind and dizzied his thoughts. The hand still blocked his vision, preventing him from seeing the smug look on the thug’s face.

He jutted out his feet again, anything to fight the heavy bodies attempting to hold him down. Another pang of satisfaction brought a withering smirk across his features, until it was – once again – snuffed out by large hands grabbing hold of each leg and _slamming_ them to the ground. He hissed, pulling at each appendage, trying to yank one free.

His head was lifted once more – granting him a moment’s notice to grit his teeth – and bludgeoned against the ground again and again and _again_ until darkness drowned him and his body went limp.

* * *

Slade watched the thugs as they stared at Hood’s limp form, before finally getting up and retracting from pinning him down. Two of them fist bumped with another patted ones back. They celebrated as if they had just taken down a priceless beast. It was possible, in a sense, that that was the case. As the years progressed, the population of humanoid aves has dwindled down to the point of protesting and government interference around the world. Where there were fifty humans, there was one Winged.

The more of a rarity they grew to be, the more black-market dealers and sketchy individuals found their worth in the creatures. It was that thought with which realization dawned on him. These thugs might not have known about Hood being here until he made himself known, but they probably knew his worth to the right person.

Unlike his brother, who’s wings were more like a peacock, colorful and flashy, their only tactical use was gliding. Hood’s wings were like an eagle, wide, broad and powerful, _meant_ for the skies. There weren’t many meant for such a livelihood, most of them were a biological accessory. The flashier and more beautiful, the more exciting you were among the populous. Those that could fly were treated differently. They were the outcasts and delinquents – using their _gifts_ to get away with petty crime and their problems. In some lawless cases, the government has allowed for those on trial to be given the _wingless_ sentence, which meant that, depending on the severity of the crime, their wings were to be removed.

However, in Hood’s case, he was most likely going to be sent to the highest bidder and live the life as someone’s _pet_.

Slade could already hear the nagging of his daughter if he were to allow that to happen to the kid.

Giving into a sigh – fleeting the action to pinch the bridge of his nose beneath the mask – he took a gander of the supplies throughout the warehouse and came to the only logical solution to this problem. He was going to make an explosive.

* * *

Glancing up from the injury, he glared toward the forest when he noticed the gaggle of darkly colored individuals saunter their way through the trees, eyeing the two with a predatory like glint. Every instinct within his form tensed with the buzz of a warning siren vibrating through his core. The warning of an immediate and dangerous threat which lurked in the recesses of his vision.

He glanced down at the kid, lids closed and stuttered breath puffing through parted lips. With Todd injured the way he was, there weren’t many options in getting the two of them out alive and unharmed (more than the kid already was).

A tainted thought seeped into his mind.

_Leaving the kid for dead and saving himself._

He shook it away before it could manifest into anything more cynical. No matter how rocky and confusing Todd’s relationship with the bats were, his father would come after Slade like a hound dog to a rabbit during hunting season. That was a hassle the old mercenary hadn’t wanted to deal with now or ever. That didn't even include the glare he'd get from his daughter for the rest of time.

Grinding his teeth, he watched the thugs move closer, shifting behind tree after tree, guns at the ready for anything that moved too quickly. Slade nudged the kid – whom mumbled something inaudible in response.

“Come on, boy. We’ve got some unwelcome company and I’d rather not deal with it.”

The younger waved his hand dismissively, mumbling some more while Slade rolled his eye. Slowly, he slipped his arms under the kids shoulders and behind his knees, wincing at the sharp breath the kid took and the murmured whimper which stubbornly left his lips. Those broad wings were a bit of a hassle, but with some maneuvering, he was able to tuck them close enough so he could hold the kid comfortably to his chest.

Getting to his feet, he turned to the side, eyeing the group. Fleeting ignorance toward their movements wouldn’t get him very far, and he was almost certain they were likely to fire if he took off toward the sky immediately. Instead, he trudged through the forest, footsteps quiet and leaving a gentle imprint along the surface of the snow.

Once he was far enough away, he’d take off.

Unfortunately, that turned out to be wishful thinking.

The bullet whizzed past the side of his head and into the truck of a nearby tree. _A warning shot_ , he thought simply – especially considering the lack of joint fire in its wake.

He stopped, feeling the boy in his arms tremble slightly. _Onset hypothermia tied with blood loss._ What had been a mildly inconvenienced situation turned into something far more concerning. The two of them needed to get out of here as quickly as possible.

Grinding his teeth, Slade came to a stop, not bothering with turning to face the small crowd which has no doubt started surrounding him.

“What?” He grumbled in response to the approaching presence behind him.

For a while, there wasn’t a word, just the settling of the snow and occasional _poof_ of if falling from heavy limbs. Finally, one of them spoke up, voice muffled but seething with rage.

“Drop the Winged, Deathstroke,” The man practically growled.

“As a fellow _Winged,_ I find that slightly offensive- “

“Give us Red Hood, now!”

If he were in a better mood, he might have taken his time in his response. “No,” Came the snapped reply. As it was, Slade’s patience was dwindled enough, and the chill in the air wasn’t helping said mood. He turned enough to glare over his shoulder to the man behind him.

With shaky hands, said man was jerking his gun around, pressing the level of his threat until the mercenary did as he was told. Unfortunately for them, Slade wasn’t in the market to take unpaid orders. Instead of doing as ordered, he simply stared, continuing to glare at the man's scarfed over features, and the men behind him.

Unlike their fearless leader, they didn’t like the burning look which was being directed at them and found it in their best interest to keep their weapons pointed elsewhere. It seems death was a more worrisome outcome than the profit of a wounded Winged.

“Hand him over or I’ll- “

“What?” Slade interrupted. “What are you going to do, little man? Do you think shooting me is going to get you anywhere? Did you _forget_ who you were actually dealing with?”

That left the man stuttering, gun still shaking in his grasp. Above, the clouds rolled, and snow began its soft descent toward the folks below. Among the chaos which simmered in the tension between both men, the gentle patter of snow fluttered through the air. He could feel it against his wings, the cold flakes seeping between each feather.

In his grasp, Hood trembled some more, mumbling thoughtlessly as he turned and tried to leech the heat from Slade’s chest. He stole a glance at Hood’s features, noting the twitch in his brow, then ground his teeth. Without looking back at the man and his twitchy gun, Slade turned and took his leave.

The man grumbled and shouted in his direction but never once thought to fire his gun. Slade took that as a win and went on his way, single minded – especially as a storm brewed above.


End file.
